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The distant sound of bells, the low hum of the church choir, the soft breeze rattling against the windows. All of these things ground him, remind him of who he is, where he is. Try as he might, he cannot escape the monotony of ministry life. Not even for a moment. Even as he thinks this, he senses a presence behind him and he turns, the light from the window casting the newly-appeared Sibling in a shimmer of golden sun.
The clergy member bows in respect. “Your Eminence, I’ve come to hand you this. It’s from-”
Terzo stops him, waving a hand dismissively. “Put it on my desk.”
“Well, it’s just, Papa Ni-”
Terzo cuts him off for a second time and inhales sharply. “Please, fratello . I will deal with it later.”
The Sibling nods, looking dejected, and disappears down the hall. Terzo turns back to face the window. He watches the courtyard below, Siblings clad in black out strolling, sitting on benches, chatting. The breeze gently caresses the leaves on the surrounding trees, making the mid-morning sunlight dance upon the concrete ground, almost as if it’s sparkling. He watches as two Sisters walk together around the lavish fountain in the centre of the courtyard, eyes creased from smiling, mouths open in hearty laughter. He feels a pang of hurt in his chest.
Suddenly, Terzo feels hot and cold, shivering, sweating. His shirt collar is too tight and his gloves become stiff. He feels his heart rate spike a little. He tells himself to breathe, close his eyes for a moment. The sounds around him intensify. The sweet voices of the choir, a sermon being gently delivered by the ever-devout Copia in one of the chapels. It makes him nauseous.
From the very first moment he opened his eyes as a newborn, his fate was sealed by the Church. He was to become Papa. Destined, following the retirement of his brother, to lead the clergy in faith and in sin. It was all he had known. His childhood was strictly an era of preparation for his ascension. Despite being in line for the Papacy, he still had to prove himself. To Nihil, to upper clergy members. To everyone. His entire life, he’d been desperate, seeking the approval of others, chasing down everyone he could to ask them if he was good enough. He was so eager to do a good job, to fulfil his destiny as a leader.
The older he got, the less sure he was that it was what he wanted. As he stands here now, gazing softly at a world beyond his means, beyond the walls of the church, he wishes it were different. He’s heard stories of others. Normal people. White picket fence, 2.5 kids, a big fancy car and Christmas dinner around a table with a big family. His soul aches to be ‘normal’. He has come to resent the person that he is, the job he has to do. True, he’s a devout follower of his faith. Sometimes, though, he just wishes he were someone else.
Being Papa is a blessing. It’s a vital role within the church, within the faith. He appreciates how hard he and his family have worked, continue to work, to achieve all that they have. But the responsibility that comes with being a leader, with being raised to be a leader with no room for error, has taken its toll. Glances in the mirror reveal a tired old man, dark circles under his eyes, sunken cheeks, wrinkles. He has noticed that, unlike others, he appears not to have wrinkles around his eyes. It dawned on him at the time that it was probably because he didn’t smile often, never laughed. Sure, he’s good at keeping up the jolly facade at rituals and amongst important gatherings, but in the dark corners of the rooms in which he sits, alone with his thoughts, his scowl is permanent. His shoulders ache from the weight of trying to be a good leader, a good Papa, a good person. He has no time for trivial things, he just watches from afar as his flock do them instead. Hence why he’s standing here, escaping his duties, to watch them from the window, unaware as they are of the pressures and anticipation.
Of course, he’s had moments. A few nights of lustful sin with a Sibling here and there. He doesn’t get his reputation by being a prude. He’s even had a couple of flings with his ghouls. But it doesn’t come anywhere near to patching up the dark, oozing hole in his heart. He carries that with him, always. Like a promise, it’s forever with him, clouding his mind.
Mostly, Terzo lives day-to-day just going through the motions. He does his paperwork, attends his meetings, takes care of the budget, and so on. It’s mindless simplicity to him now, as it always has been. As faithful as he has always been to the Dark Lord, the trivialities of Clergy life have never been in his interests. The further up you go in the Church hierarchy, the less it becomes about faith. It’s more about keeping up appearances, making sure things are always running smoothly. It drains him, pulls the faith out of him and replaces it with darkness and fatigue. He thinks that the Siblings who make up the majority of the clergy’s population have it the best. They get to attend sermons, read books, recite prayers. It’s purely about the faith. There’s no real responsibility, no looming pressure that comes crashing down like a depressing tidal wave.
The main issue, Terzo thinks, is that despite having fought his entire life to be the person everyone wanted him to be, he’s never been good enough. As a Cardinal, he was forever being punished for ‘slacking off’, not completing work on time. Instead, he’d frolic around the Ministry gardens, drink too much. He tried so hard to engage in behaviours he thought were ‘normal’ for others, not for someone in line to be a Papa. At every step of his journey, and especially now as he holds the title of Papa Emeritus III, he’s been beaten down and abused, never quite reaching the level of approval he so desperately searched for. He loathes all the time he’s wasted trying to please others to no avail. And he will spend the rest of his life this way, forever in the shadow of others, aiming to please and only ever disappointing.
He turns once more from the window, the seemingly never-ending corridor looming before him. The longer he stares down the dark passageway, the mahogany floorboards creaking with every breath he takes, the more it becomes a fitting metaphor for his life. A long, dark and treacherous journey with no apparent way out, no light at the end. He begins to walk, the heels of his shoes clicking sharply on the floor, the sound echoing all around him, battering into his ears. He can hear his own scant breathing as he travels, his clothes feeling too tight, the air feeling too hot, stifling almost. As he nears the atrium of the building, the heart of the ministry, the bustling noises of Siblings and Clergy members going about their daily duties becomes louder. He passes a few people here and there, gentle nods, respectful waves and always his infamous smirk. Having shoved his feelings deep into the core of his soul, where they cannot be touched by anyone but him, he collects himself, transforms into the Papa that everybody is familiar with. The real Terzo, the one who aches with every moment he’s stuck here, bound by blood and responsibility, is for his eyes only.